


Exceeding Expectations

by Penryn3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Kissing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Male Slash, Semi-Public Sex, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23026687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penryn3/pseuds/Penryn3
Summary: He slides onto the bench across from you without waiting for an invitation.You would have expected yourself to object.You don’t.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55





	Exceeding Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters from it. I make no money from the writing/publishing of this story.

You see him standing at the bar and he’s not what you expected. Not that you’ve ever really had any expectations involving Ronald Weasley before. But you suppose there was a certain assumption to be had. One that started with the gangly, awkward, buffoon of a boy growing up to marry the Princess of the Golden Trio and breeding an abundance of gangly, awkward, buffoon children that had more hair than sense, then proceeding to peak early in life at a mediocre level before finally descending into old age with a receding hairline, a beer gut and tales of the Glory Days and what could have been if he had only done things differently.

That was what you would have expected, if you had been asked.

What you didn’t expect was to see Ron Weasley in the first place, and certainly never in a place like this. A War Hero like him shouldn’t be here. Hell, _you_ shouldn’t be here. No good ever came from frequenting an establishment such as this. The derelict bar is in a sorry state. The dark paneled walls are peeling of paint and the tight claustrophobic booths are poorly lit, creating shadows that only the solitary and forgotten dregs of society chose to hide in.

You smirk to yourself; maybe you do belong here after all.

The first thing you notice is that he is alone, which startles you more than it should. Whenever you have run into him in the past, the last time being a good eight or so years ago, he has always been surrounded by adoring, simpering fans who couldn’t wait to sink their teeth into a member of the Golden Trio.The Weasley you remember lapped up the attention like a starving dog.

The man you now watch seems to walk through the room like a whisper, quiet and unassuming, and your gaze follows his movements with interest as he makes his way through the murmuring half-drunk ghosts of men. Conveniently, he drops into a booth across from you - all the more perfect for spying on him from the dark. 

The second thing you notice is that he doesn’t look anything like the lanky red-haired boy from your youth. You’re surprised you’ve recognized him at all. Ron Weasley has turned into an ox of a man; ridiculously tall and wearing a thick heavy cloak that only accentuates large broad shoulders. Strong muscled thighs are tucked into high black dragon-hide boots. His hair is much longer, the fire-coloured strands tied into a knot at the back of his head. The freckles are still present but are less obvious against skin that has deepened to a golden brown. Though you loathe to admit it, Weasley has turned out quite attractive – in a rugged, roguish sort of way. 

He’s drinking straight whiskey, another thing you did not expect. You took him for a beer man, a common drink for a common bloke. You fight not to notice how large his hands are as they wrap around the cheap glass, not wanting to know why you are wondering what they would look like against your fair skin.

You force your eyes back to his face and your stomach tightens when you realise he is already looking at you. You spare a moment to hope that he can’t see you here, in the murky depths of your unlit corner booth. It soon becomes apparent that this is not the case when the side of his mouth quirks up and he grabs his glass, pushing that large towering body to his feet and walking the short distance from his booth to yours.

He slides onto the bench across from you without waiting for an invitation. You would have expected yourself to object. You don’t.

“Malfoy,” He greets in a voice much deeper than you remember.

“Weasley,” You reply curtly.

He doesn’t say anything else, just sits there and studies you. His expression is hard to read, but it’s not sneering or judgmental or anything else that you would expect. He looks at you long enough that you start to squirm a little in your seat. 

“You’ve changed quite a bit,” You say, just to fill the silence. Weasley smiles, slow and sure, amused that he has clearly managed to make the unflappable Draco Malfoy uncomfortable.

“You haven’t,” he says, before pausing, head tilting in consideration. “On the outside at least.”

You can’t quite keep the snideness from your tone as you ask “Where is your posse of adoring fans? One would have thought you would collapse without them there to prop up your insatiably large ego.”

Weasley smirks. “I can assure you I'm perfectly capable of holding up my own ego - large though it is.”

His smirk fades and he looks at you like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.

“I’m…not about that life anymore,” He admits quietly.

Comprehension crawls down your spine. Your gazes meet and you try to tell him without words that you _know_. You know what it is to give up on your old self, your old life. That prickling sensation of no longer fitting inside the skin of who you once were. Fire lights his eyes and you know he understands. That he’s searching for a different life – just like you.

After that you just…talk.

You would have expected the conversation to be stilted. It’s not. You talk of inconsequential things. Then, later, you talk of things with more substance. By unspoken agreement, you do not mention the War. You do not mention friends or family and anyone you both might know. You talk of the world and all the ways your lives have disappointed you. You talk bucket lists and dreams for the future. You both admit how broken you are. The conversation is heavy and honest and edifying. You talk to each other for hours. His gaze is intense, eyes barley leaving your face – glinting like chips of blue ice.

He’s not like he was back then. The boy you knew was quick to pout, quicker to anger and blunt to the point of rudeness. Yet here is a man who doesn’t seem quick to do anything. He considers your questions carefully before he answers them and listens attentively to your responses to his own. Strong, quiet confidence cloaks him in a shroud of mystery that makes you yearn to learn more, to unravel the secrets that linger behind that steady gaze. You’re intrigued despite yourself.

Eventually you beg off for the bathroom, overwhelmed and not knowing what to make of this version of Ron Weasley, a man you thought you had figured out long ago but clearly had not.

You stare at your reflection in the cracked dirty mirror. The flickering lights highlight the sunken gaps beneath your cheekbones – far more prominent than they used to be. You grip the sink in your hands and murmur orders to yourself to get a grip.

When you come out, Weasley is casually leaning his shoulder against the wall of the dark and murky hallway, hands in his pockets. You almost ask if he needs the loo, but you stop. There’s no need for pretense. He’s waiting for _you_. You know it and so does he.

He prowls towards you, stepping in close until your back is against the wall, those wide shoulders crowding you, trapping you in. At least they would be – if you had any intention of trying to get away.

His mouth is hot and insistent, his fingers quick and sure as they undo your pants to slide a hand inside. You groan against his ear as his large fist closes around you, a wisp of his curling red hair brushing against your open, gasping mouth. It’s rough; frenzied and not at all what you thought it would be. His hips are canting against you, rutting the hard length of him against your thigh.

Weasley pulls back, those eyes shining in the half-light as they greedily rake over your panting face. The way he is staring at you is far more intoxicating than the several glasses of whiskey running through your veins could ever be. You bite your lip to keep from crying out and he tracks the movement, hunger flashing behind his eyes. That’s all it takes. You spill over his hand. You barely catch your breath before he’s crushing his mouth to yours in desperation, hips stuttering as he comes.

He stays pressed against you for a moment as you both gasp in the shadows. All too soon he’s leaning away, and it worries you how much you want to chase him.

“I’d like to see you again.” He says, simple and direct.

“I don’t date.” You say back, because you don’t.

“Neither do I,” he says, grinning wickedly. “But if we happen to be in the same place at the same time…say this bar at 7pm on Friday, we might run into each other.”

He smiles again - the crooked half smile that makes you feel punch-drunk and off kilter. Now _that_ you definitely did not expect. He leaves you staring open-mouthed at his broad back as he walks away from you. Exceeding expectations indeed.

It takes you a minute to compose yourself and make your way back into the bar, now almost completely empty of its former patrons. You sit at the grimy counter, signalling for another whisky as you mull over the last couple of hours. It’s another hour before you come to a decision. You knock back the last of your drink and nod to the barman, telling him you’ll see him Friday.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments/Kudos are lovely ❤
> 
> Side note: I couldn't help but picture Jamie from Outlander as Ron when writing this. Anyone else or just me? 🤷😂


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